Excerpt from I, Mary Maclane: Adiary of Human Days
I am presciently and analytically egotistic, with some arresting dead-feeling genius.
And were I not so tensely tiredly sane I would say that I am mad.
So assayed I begin to write this book of myself, to show to myself in detail the woman who is inside me. It may or it mayn't show also a type, a uni versal Eve-old woman. If, it is so it is not my purport. I sing only the Ego and the individual.
So does in secret each man and woman and child who breathes, but is afraid to sing it aloud. And mostly none knows it is that he does sing. But it is the only strength of each. A bishop serving truly and tirelessly the poor of his diocese serves a strong vanity and ideal of the Ego in himself. A starving sculptor who lives in and for his own dreams is an Egotist equally with the bishop. And both are Egotists equally with me.
Egotist, not egoist, is my word: it and not the idealized one is the 'winged word.' It is made of glow and gleam and splendor, that Ego. I would be its votary.
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